March 25, 2015

This past week, being in Oxford in my own right as an academic and intellectual, I experienced what can only be described as a feeling of closure. Indeed, it was the first time in my life that I did not yearn for acknowledgment from my mother or older brother for my accomplishments. I felt completely comfortable in my own skin: included in a community of my peers, and up to the intellectual task set before me. I wandered the streets of the ancient collegiate city, probably down the very streets that my brother had walked decades ago when he had the good fortune and privilege to study there. And, for the first time in my life, I felt akin to him, and equal in academic stature. At times I even allowed myself to feel pride in the hard work I had done these past twenty years to place me where I am today. It was a very good and solid feeling. Not arrogant or prideful - but peaceful and happy. On Friday, last week as I sat with Life Partner at a quaint but classy little pub in Hampstead, London, it suddenly occurred to me that in order to experience closure, I had to first be opened up.

It has taken years for me to face my deepest feelings about so much that went on for me as a young child. While I might have known about my situation cognitively, I would have to allow myself to feel what I felt as a child before I could truly understand what I had been through. I would have to digest the hurt, experience the pain, and confront my fears head and heart on, in order to let go and move on. It took me until my late fifties to allow myself to do this. As I write this I realize that I waited that long because I must have feared the pain. And yet, when I confronted it together with my therapist these past few years, it was not at all as excruciating as I had anticipated. Oh, there were times that I wept and raged, but when I held still and allowed myself to feel the sensations from decades prior, it became more and more manageable, always followed by a feeling of relief that was worth everything I had gone through.

My older brother died about a year and a half ago, and what with one thing and another, I was unable to attend his funeral. And so, with my trip to Oxford, I initially planned a type of pilgrimage to his grave in another town to pay my respects. I had hoped that I might experience a feeling of closure with such a visit, because of the many complex feelings that I had within the context of my past relationship with him.

However, as I walked the streets of his alma mater, it was enough for me to feel a deep sense of peace in taking my leave of him.

March 14, 2015

I am a rule follower. Yes indeed. I follow the rules. When I break them, as inevitably I do, once I think critically and independently, I feel anxious. For example, I remember when I decided that I preferred coffee over tea. I thought I was quite the rebel! For, in our family tea is the drink we drink to be social, to cure all ills, in crisis, or if there is the slightest hint of emotional discomfort. Growing up in Rhodesia, we were served daily with trays of steaming pots of strong, sweet, delicious tea. Coffee felt like a rule breaker for me - as if I had become unfaithful in toeing the party line! But, oh my - how I love it!

When I move into a different job, visit a family other than mine, or travel to a new country, and especially when I joined academia-land, I observe and learn carefully and quickly what the rules are within each and every type of culture. How to speak, what to say, when to say it, what to do, when to do it, and so on. When I first came to America, for example, I learned very quickly not to talk with my mouth full, and to suck on a breath mint immediately if there was the slightest hint that I had been eating garlic.

In my youth, when I belonged to an organization, I followed their rules! In fact, each time I became a staunch and loyal member, and expected everyone to abide by all the rules, I was as harsh on myself as I was judgmental of others. No double standards there! As I look back on my life and recall the organizations I have been a member of, I am appalled about how loyal I was - sometimes unquestioning in my obedience. It is no wonder that nowadays I am fiercely dedicated to helping students think critically for themselves, for I know intimately and personally how important it is to be able to think independently when making choices that will affect me or others close to me. I have to admit that because of my strict adherence to blind obedience that I learned as a young child at my mother's knee, I only allowed myself to entertain feminist ideology at the late age of 40.

Now that I am older it seems that there are even more rules to follow: not to drink coffee, yes to drink coffee, not to eat bread, yes to eat the right kinds of grains, not to drink wine, yes to drink red wine, to walk every day for 30 minutes or more, not to sit for too long, to do cross word puzzles or play Scrabble or lose my mind, not to be involved with social media, yes to belong to a group on Facebook, not to eat before gong to bed, yes to eat the right kinds of food before going to sleep, to sleep in the dark, not to watch television before sleeping, to read but not on Kindle, to ... the list is endless. Study after study comes out and tells me what I should or should not be doing to retain my health, grow old gracefully, or whatever it is the study shows.

All those should's and should-not's - it's exhausting.

So sometimes the best thing is to just sit quite still, breathe in and out, and toss all those rules aside. That way all those demanding, dominant voices in my brain are silenced, and I can consider what it is I want and need at that very moment.

March 01, 2015

Looking back and thinking forward. I have noticed that I reflect on the past a lot, especially in the one or two years leading up to, and for a few years after becoming sixty. Mainly the purpose of that has been to make sense of my life, and how I came to be me. It has caused much regret, but at the same time it led me down nostalgia lane.

How much better it was when ...

It seems I have dwelt in the land of yearning for awhile. And yet, for the past week or so, I think I am starting to think about retiring nostalgia and regret, and leaving them behind in the past. Over the years as I have made more sense of my earliest childhood and how I made the choices growing into an adult and beyond, I look forward to a different time. Of course, at the core I will always be the unique me, who was born almost 66 years ago. And I am sure I will retain most of my neuroses even though I understand better than ever how I tick emotionally. However, it seems to me more and more lately that the past is exactly where it needs to be. Behind me.

This older version of me has a different life ahead.

Being on sabbatical this semester has made me realize I am not anywhere ready to retire. I love the work I do, and would miss it terribly if I left it. Recently, talking with a financial advisor about retirement was an interesting experience. I noticed that all the financial advisors in the building were young people, including our own very competent and understanding fellow. There he sat, as young as could be - full of life and exuberance, bright as a button and sharp as a wit. And he gave us advice about our future - a future that was capped by a certain number of years - a future that very clearly has an end. I wondered if developmentally he understood how that feels - a future that will end ... soonish. One thing for sure though, he helped me see that the choices I make for this next piece of the journey will be very different to those of the past.

On my walk yesterday afternoon I wondered if I am really ready to give up on looking back. In a couple of months I will head out to yet another reunion. Ten years later, another group is organizing another such reunion. A time for people to gather together, gray haired and life experienced, to look into each others' eyes and seek out past memories shared together - dipping into nostalgia as never before. I remember the first one. Even as it was joyous to reconnect with old friends from the distant past, it also raised feelings of longing for a simpler, and more passionate time. It brought back regrets of lost loves and thoughts of, "If only ..." over and over again. I wonder, do I want to do that again? Really? After all, most of the people I see for an afternoon or evening, I will most likely never see again.

Is nostalgia and looking back to the past a way of me holding onto my youth? I realized recently that when I think of losing weight, I have an illusion I will become younger if I do. I mean, I say that, at my age, I am doing it for my health. But in reality, am I hoping I will become young again? For me, leaving the past behind means letting go of holding onto my youth. Bidding farewell to an era gone by. I must admit it is a bit wistful. Saying goodbye is always a bit sad. But, at the same time, letting go of the past means moving forward and onto a different future. While it may be unknown, and challenges certainly lie ahead, as I look back over my life I realize, that that never stopped me before!

February 22, 2015

Within two hours of welcoming students to a retreat on using food as a doorway to their inner lives, I ask them to list 10 criticisms they've hurled at themselves since they arrived. "Just 10?" someone usually asks. Then I introduce the concept of The Voice. I ask a few people to read their lists out loud (using the tone in which The Voice usually speaks to them). Some things I've heard: "I can't believe I came to another thing on weight." "What is wrong with me for thinking I could wear a sleeveless dress?" "My toenails are disgusting." "I'm wasting my time and I should go home." You probably wouldn't let anyone else talk to you the way you talk to yourself. You're inured to insults from this inner critic who sounds so much like you that you believe it is you. You think you're telling yourself the truth.

How do you free yourself from The Voice? You begin by becoming aware that it exists. One good way to do that is by listing the ways you've berated yourself and reading the insults out loud in the voice of The Voice, the way my students do. Next, you work on disengaging from The Voice - understanding that it isn't you. You can begin to separate from The Voice by remembering a time when you knew the delight of being happy for no reason, a moment when The Voice was silent and you were your essential self.

When you stop believing The Voice, when you know it isn't you, when you talk back to it, you are free. You have access to yourself and every thing The Voice pretends to offer, but doesn't: clarity, intelligence, strength, joy, compassion, curiosity, love. When you stop responding to the continual comments on your thighs, your value, your very existence, then you can ask yourself if you are comfortable at this weight; if you feel healthy, energetic, awake. And if the answer is no, you can ask yourself what you could do about it that would fit into your day-to-day life. What you can live with, what you can maintain. What feels good, what stirs your heart. And you can give that answer in your own voice. Geneen Roth, February 22, 2015.

Lately, I have been thinking a lot about compassion. In the new book I am writing, I have been describing my pedagogical principles, and compassion features strongly. It leads me to wonder how I can get teachers of young children to understand this. Most of us growing up have not experienced much validation or respect for our emotions, so how do we know what it feels like to do that for children?

And then about a week ago, I watched Alive Inside, and was made to wonder about compassion even more. How do we help people understand about empathy and compassion when they have never experienced it themselves? Or, are some people born with a compassion gene, and others not? There are skills that can be taught: like listening without judgment, for example. But how do I teach that skill when most of us know only what it feels like to be criticized or shamed? How do I help people feel what it is like not to be judged, and thus not to judge?

Is it impossible?

I am not able to stop what Geneen Roth [above] calls, "the voice" inside my brain either. My inner critic is relentless! Therefore, I struggle to hold back my judgment of others too - just like any pre or in-service teacher I teach. I mean, I judge those who are critical of others, and who lack compassion, for goodness sake!

For the past forty years I have observed teachers and families as they interact with children. Their expectations are too many to list ... children are judged for being too much of everything:

noisy

quiet

fat

thin

strong

weak

whiny

needy for attention

slow

fast

good

bad ...

Mostly we need people to be like us - within our own comfort zone. When they are different from us, we try and squeeze them into an obedience box of our making. We feel comfortable with those, who follow our orders, or do as they are told - forgetting that most of our expectations we learned from adults, who were critical of us when we were young. Sometimes, we reach for the opposite of what we were taught, especially if it was painful. Either way, unless we become aware and reflect about how we were brainwashed as children, we will find it impossible to learn the skill of listening without judgment, develop empathy, and become compassionate.

At the foundation of my pedagogical principles must be compassion, for it contains within it empathy, and, while we can never fully put ourselves in someone else's shoes, we can try to feel what it might be like for others. If we cannot feel what they are experiencing, at the very least we can learn to listen to them - really listen - without judgment - and hear the story as they experience it.

As I wonder out loud about all this, I can already hear caregivers and teachers wailing at me: "But there is not enough funding - we have no time to stop and listen to everyone. there is so much to be done, so much paperwork, so many expectations on us!"

So - then - it follows that one of my pedagogical principles must be:

Building time into this institutional structure for practicing listening without judgment; validation of feelings; and respect for each individual voice.

February 13, 2015

People, who do great things. Women after my own heart. People, who speak the same language. Resilience in others. Watching them survive great ordeals and come out wiser and more compassionate - not bitter. Kindness inspires me. Imagining greatness as a way to help people through dark moments. Writing down my story and having others identify with what I am saying. Watching the "aha" moments in students' eyes when they understand something emotionally as well as cognitively. Feeling excited and exhilarated with a new idea, strong feelings, or being acknowledged and validated. Having lunch with an emotionally intelligent friend who understands my humor. Reading poetry. Reading Deborah Feldman's two books recently. The arts. Great book, movie, painting. My son's piano playing. Singing with him accompanying me. Walking five miles in the brisk, cold air of winter, crossing a field of snow and ice, and making it to the other side. Music, music, music. Dance, dance, dance. Waking very early in the morning and feeling the quiet of the house with just the gentle mewing of cats as they wait impatiently for their breakfast. Watching the sun struggling to shine weakly through the wintry morning. Oh, and did I say resilience? For resilience inspires me. Just getting through it and seeing that it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. Remembering now that first "A" grade on my first paper back in 1988 when I went back to school at age 39, when I thought I could never do it. And I did it. Memories of resilience through hard times - coming out stronger, more loving, with my heart wide open. In the early morning, shall we rise and find our greatest thoughts and feelings accompanying us in our hearts and minds? Spilling them out into Cyberspace for no one and everyone in particular to read. Just to be heard even in silence. Closing my eyes and sensing the new day approaching. Feeling hopeful, heart expanding into what each new moment will bring. Boredom perhaps. Regret. Just to be heard.

February 06, 2015

Often I’ve heard that the people who become writers are those who can’t satisfactorily express themselves or have any power in real life. My desire for autonomy came out through my writing ... Writing allows me to describe the world in the way that it is. That’s the thing my real life won’t allow. You try describing your own experience of life and someone will come along quickly to tell you that you’re wrong or you’re being contrary, or you’re getting on your high horse. When you’re writing ... you can create a ... world that expresses whatever you want to express. That allows for proper freedom, which day to day life just doesn’t. Sophie Hannah

Sitting in Starbucks on the corner of Broadway and 81st this icy, wintry morning, I wonder if the timing could have been any better for me to have received the gift of this book. It speaks to me, as I am sure it will speak to women of every age and stage. Each story in this anthology tells a tale of the loss of friendship. Through each page, voices of women poignantly cry out in shock and agony at being "dumped," very often for reasons they cannot explain. Often they learn about themselves along the way: about life, friendship, awareness, forgiveness, anger, and letting go. Sometimes their pain is accompanied by humor, and all are gut-wrenchingly honest about their experiences from childhood years to high school and into older adulthood.

Each personal story I read pulled up my own memories of friendship loss, for I have certainly had my share of being "dumped." Mostly, after I have been cast aside, I spent time begging to get back, or try and be a better person so as to be included again - even as I was mostly bewildered and shocked, not knowing what it was I needed to do to improve. I consistently experienced the feeling that I was to blame for whatever had transpired. It was a painful and humiliating process to be sure - rendering me helpless and pathetic. Many times I was simply grateful to be wanted at all. But then that speaks of the way I perceived myself since earliest childhood. Understanding the reasons why I have felt, and often still do feel this way helps. And so, I must admit that while reading the stories, I found myself confronting my own discomfort at every level of my friendship history. Some memories I had repressed years ago rose to the fore, and the most recent "unfriending-of-me" experience hurt all over again!

On the other hand, as I concluded the final pages of the book, I realized that reading about so many different women's stories had validated my own in a deep and healing way. It felt as if there is a universal support group out there, and that there is not something innately lacking in me to have caused some friendships not to work out as I had hoped. Indeed, sometimes there simply is no explanation for the things that happen. "It's not always about you!" It is complex. Each person's dreams and expectations, desires, hopes, and earliest childhood experiences are valid, and influence the success or failure of one's relationships.

Once again I realize that life is hard for me because I want to understand it all so much. I don't want to take anything for granted. I want to know why and how, what and when! That is why I love the consistent support of a professional therapist to bear witness and validate my need to uncover all this complexity and confusion. I am the richer for it.

Just as I am richer for having read Dumped: Stories of Women Unfriending Women, by Nina Gaby. You can be sure that I most likely will read some of the stories again and again, because in some way I have joined a sisterhood of unfriended folk just like me. At the same time though, I feel a renewed appreciation for my women friends, who have unfriended and then friended again; and for those, who have stayed staunch and true, accepting my idiosyncrasies and failings, and loving me all the more for them.

February 01, 2015

Well, finally it happened. I was tagged. You know. The five things you may not know about me, meme.

Jean at This Too made the suggestion and I laughed out loud. "What on earth have I left out about me that you do not already know?" I thought to myself. But when my friend Jean calls, I answer. And so, here goes:

Well, well, I noticed that someone, who "lurks" out there in Cyberspace, is reading my blog from "cover to cover." Sometimes I go to the page they have just read. Today, I found this old blog post of mine from January 2007. I enjoyed reading all that "stuff" about me - and especially enjoyed the comments from readers at that time. Thought I would share it again, for all those reasons.

January 26, 2015

Sitting in a coffee shop organizing the chapters of the new book I am writing, I feel a sense of excitement; the thrill when pieces fall into place, and the book takes shape before my eyes. For some weeks now I have been feeling despondent, flailing about without a focus. When this happens to me I immediately spiral downwards, descending into an abyss of self-loathing. It takes no time at all before I find I am castigating myself for all manner of imperfections. The ancient script kicks into place even before I am able to notice what is happening. This time, though, the recovery is quicker than usual. I am able to sense that these feelings come from a time and place that are no longer relevant for me, and I even laugh out loud to myself. I think: "Well, hello there, old feelings - old voices and castigators who hang out on my left shoulder buzzing insults in my ear - you are no longer needed here. In fact, you are offensive, and more importantly you are holding me back!" Before I know it, they melt away, and all that remains is a slight twinge of muscle ache close to the left side of the base of my neck. Even that remnant becomes insignificant as I smile to myself knowingly. I am able to conjure up an image of the coming days with a stream of writing.

This reminds me of the day, seventeen years ago, when I completed the first chapter of my dissertation. Life Partner and I had rented a small apartment in Ithaca for a month while he taught a summer class at Cornell. I had moved my small, old Apple computer into a corner of the living room. In the mornings, Life Partner went off to the university to teach, while I began writing my thesis on a little table surrounded by piles of books I had brought to help me along. In the afternoons, we would meet up for lunch, play a few games of tennis at the community park, and then visit the pool to read at the edge of the water, or swim laps. Evenings were dinners out or the occasional movie.

One morning earlier than expected, I completed the first chapter of my doctoral dissertation. I stood up and stretched my arms to the ceiling. A feeling of excitement overwhelmed me, and in order to calm down, I decided to do some yoga asanas. While I was bending and stretching through the salutation of the sun exercise, I suddenly had an image of the future; of graduation day when I would walk up on the stage to receive my Ph.D. degree, and true to the tradition, be hooded by my advisor. The image was graphic, clear, bright. Immediately as I saw myself walking up towards my advisor, a flash of light shot through my brain, and suddenly I was blind, unable to see half the living room where I was doing yoga. It was as if lightening had struck. In that moment I was terrified of some type of imminent danger. Indeed, I felt I might die. I went quickly to the bathroom and ran water into the tub. As I immersed my body into the warm, comforting water, I realized that ancient voices in my brain were warning me that I was not allowed to feel this type of accomplishment. I had entered turf that was not mine to have. I needed to stay outside of that area - it belonged to others - not me.

Still feeling partially blind, I dried myself off, dressed, and then walked slowly and tentatively up toward Cornell, hugging the stone wall that flanked the sidewalk, until I arrived at a small cafe at the the top of the hill. There I sat drinking a cup of hot tea gathering strength and comfort from strangers as some conversed softly among themselves at different tables in the restaurant. Slowly, the partial blindness dissipated and I was able to see clearly again. I had managed to ward off the chorus of my old life script. When I met up with Life Partner at lunch I described the events of the morning, as he listened quietly, supporting me as I processed what had transpired.

I look around the coffee shop now, where I am sitting typing this post, and realize that the memory of that traumatic incident years ago came back to remind me how my old life script had been in the way of writing my new book. But it feels quite different now, for there is no sensation of imminent danger. There is only the slightest twinge, a small, dull ache in the left corner at the base of my neck. I am standing solidly on turf that belongs to me. I am on the inside looking out - not cast out only to look longingly in like before. I shed a small, warm tear of joy and relief, and allow myself to feel accomplished and exuberant that my new book is starting to come together.

January 17, 2015

I recognize that I don't actually rewrite my emotional script as much as I live it through feelings that arise in the context of interactions with others. Writing about it, though, helps to pick apart the illusions that I developed as a child. It's about making connections between past feelings and present realities. Part of the rewrite is that it is becoming less painful, and rather more intriguing to make those connections. In other words, I get to see how my mind works! A little like the unraveling of a mystery. For we are mysterious and complex beings, us humans. I imagine that all those millions of neurons and synapses in our brains must make for complexity. And that is the other exciting part about living the rewrite. I am discovering that I am complex and mysterious. For, mostly I thought of myself as either good or bad, and did not allow for the many varieties of feelings and human characteristics I have - just like any other human being. Indeed, in my relationships I have not had a problem with recognizing and accepting others as being complex and mysterious. I just held that two dimensional standard for myself. Much as a child would.

So, I think one of the important discoveries for me has been accepting that I am multidimensional, with complex emotions - just like everyone else. And, in fact, that is a relief - a release for me. For, bit by bit, I am letting go of the fear of dreadful punishments to befall me for what I consider as "being bad." For example, loyalty has always been a big issue for me. Growing up, I learned it as something simple - I was either loyal - that is, adhering to one opinion and a type of "party line" - or I wasn't. Even independent thought, in and of itself, was seen as disloyal. In my present reality I know that critical thinking and independent thought is essential for me in making choices. Indeed, the fact that I even have a choice is something I discovered only in my forties, and knowing that has saved my emotional life. I am coming to realize that there is nothing inherently wrong with me because I think differently from the people I love and care about. Just the reverse, because loving someone means understanding their flaws as well. We don't throw people away just because they are not like us. We work to understand and accept their differences. For, we are all not alike!

January 16, 2015

Fear, to a great extent, is born of a story we tell ourselves, and so I chose to tell myself a different story from the one women are told. I decided I was safe. I was strong. I was brave. Nothing could vanquish me. Cheryl Strayed

Rewriting my emotional script is only possible once I have come to a clear understanding of how it was acquired. More importantly, though, is the realization that while the script I developed about myself was necessary to help me survive as a child, it is irrelevant to who I have become today.

In fact, all it does for me lately is get in the way, and hold me back.

Indeed, I have spent years exploring and researching the emotional memories and experiences of my earliest years. I did that by interviewing significant family members and friends, through writing this blog and two books, and with the guidance of professional therapists.

Lately, I have the feeling that my researching-the-self period is coming to an end. There are very few stones I have left unturned. And, I am weary of the journey.

In fact, I feel more than prepared to tell me a different story about myself, even though I am sure I will regress from time to time to yearnings and ancient pains.

However, that won't get in the way as I strive to perceive me differently. For, there is no going back now.